


Askew

by BuffyRowan



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, POV First Person, more like connecting scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1374226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuffyRowan/pseuds/BuffyRowan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bridges John watching Moriarty and Sherlock going over the falls and the funeral scene in "Game of Shadows."  Mostly emotional.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Askew

The world has gone wrong. It has been off its axis since I watched Holmes push himself and Moriarty over the railing. It is so off its rotation that I could not react. I should have screamed, called his name, wept with grief. But I did none of that. A moment, eyes closed, to send up a prayer that my eyes had deceived me, then I walked to the railing, as composed as if I was crossing the floor of a church. 

Many treated me as if I was Holmes' widow when I returned to England. I suppose, in a way, they are right to do so. I objected when he used the word "relationship," but it was correct, as far as it goes. But like so much about my friend, the word is inadequate to fully describe the connection we shared. Now, at his funeral, I must consider again how off-kilter my world has truly become. In one of the front pews my Mary, my loving and understanding wife, sits next to Mycroft as family. While I sit here, off to the side, hidden behind several of Holmes' brawny and borderline-criminal associates. I could not tolerate sitting on display amongst those in the pews, nor could I bear to sit near Mary or Mycroft. When Sim joins me on my lonely bench, her presence doesn't jangle against my skin. Why I can tolerate the closeness of a Gypsy woman I've known less than a fortnight, and cannot bear more than the most fleeting contact with my Mary eludes my conscious mind at the moment. And I cannot regret that. I take solace in the silent presence of a comrade who lost something just as priceless and irreplaceable on that cold Swiss mountain. I gather the strength to stand from this bench, place my hand at the small of Mary's back, and guide her steps towards home. To go on as if my world is now at odd angles from me, and a most precious being has not been ripped from me. Perhaps one day I will find the words to describe the entirety of this, to myself if no one else. Until then, I will use the words of grief and friendship that capture only a pale shadow of the full truth.


End file.
